


What Drives You | MEMORIES

by Entomolojest



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Explosives, Gang Violence, Ghosts, Occult, Organized Crime, Other fun things in my cheery universe!, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entomolojest/pseuds/Entomolojest
Summary: A smattering of shorts for the main cast of my original story, What Drives You! Most aren't proofread, so mind any errors, they're simply for my enjoyment and practice!If you've happened on these and enjoyed the story, check out the development of the world on my Toyhouse: https://toyhou.se/~world/44069.what-drives-you
Kudos: 1





	1. BOUREGARD | ODD JOB

Bouregard pinched a cigarette between their lips. They pulled their jacket closer as a stiff breeze combed the Pools district, causing banners and buildings to shiver. They sat on the roof of a long dilapidated comic store, back against a tangle of infrastructure that connected it to the other buildings on the block. It had three floors, the top two being used as an extended living space.  
  
Beyond the fold of the apartments, neon signs painted canal sides and bustling streets in a sinister rainbow. There was always a festival in the square: they could see the ectoplasmic-powered float strangle its way through the crowd from their lowly perch, hear the shrieks of delight.  
  
They craned their head towards the pitch sky, two red moons winking back. Clouds rolled in from the port to the west. The musty, salt-filled stench made their nose twitch. Bou idly flipped their phone open and closed while they chewed, and eyed two kids slip into the store through the window.  
  
Newbies-- they could tell as the glass crunched under their oversized boots. Even in their gang’s schismed state, they managed to scrape the bottom for willing kids to join the ranks. Most were orphaned like Bouregard, forced into a criminal lifestyle to get by, while others did it to escape their homelife.  
  
The meeting would be starting soon. They chewed their cigarette thoughtfully, ignoring the painful buzz in the back of their throat.  
  
"Thought you quit smokin, squirt."  
  
Bou cursed as a ghost materialized from the Other Field. They were used to his presence by now: A jolly man, on in his years and ridden with stubble, and washed green like a bottle of arsenic. He wore a grungy, plain t-shirt, save the beer stains, and a pair of ratty jeans. Keys hung from his belt loops, jingling as he belly laughed and floated in front of Bou.  
  
His name was Hugh, and he owned the store their gang was currently squatting in. He died due to stubbornness and one too many bottles, and with no family to speak of, his store was ransacked and left to rot. He took a shine to Bouregard in the last few months, but they scowled at his misty arrival. They weren’t in the mood.  
  
"I ain't smokin, I'm chewin, so lay off. S'been a rough month." Bou said.  
  
Hugh tutted. "So that gives you an excuse t'start again?"  
  
"Y'aint my pops. You know dang well the folks you used to sell these to sir, myself included, so ain't you start."  
  
Bou got up to pace and turned their back on Hugh, stuffing their gnarled hands in their jacket. Hugh whistled.  
  
"Someone oughtta be. You're cranky today."  
  
"Yeah, well, I ain't had my smokes and I'm worked to the bone. Gang stuff's rough. Now hush up, got a text from Sammy. Our meeting is startin and I ain't want you to get caught."  
  
Bou snapped their phone shut and stomped towards the fire escape. It was a short drop, but their height made it easier. They only had to worry about stability. Bou sat on the ledge and swung their legs over.  
  
"Sweet as always, squirt.sweet as always. Come back up tomorrow, y'hear?" Hugh said.  
  
"No promises, sir." Bouregard leapt down and cringed as the metal crunched. They didn’t stick around to see if it’d hold and slipped onto the third floor-- Hugh’s old bedroom.  
  
It was gutted, and the only evidence of the old man were the greasy furniture-shaped stamps on the wallpaper. The floor had collapsed in the center, and a ladder was propped precariously below by sandbags and an empty crate with a lava lamp. Sammy sat at the bottom and picked their teeth with a toothpick.  
  
“About time!” Sammy hissed.  
  
Bouregard stuck their tongue out and descended. The room was dim, lit by various lava lamps and novelty night lights plugged into a generator. Bean bags, stools and chairs were clustered around a central pool table, littered with cups, wrappers and paperwork. There were fifteen scrawny members left Pool-side, give or take, with the addition of the two new kids who whispered in the corner.  
  
Bouregard could recognize some of them; Quintin on a beanbag, a twitchy fellow with a notably wide forehead. They interacted once before he lost his leg and modified his crutches into spears. He was more cowardly then; Gossip, who appropriately doted on her phone, occasionally swiping her pitch flop of hair out of her mascara-slathered eyes. They knew better than to antagonize her, or point out the lipstick on her teeth.  
  
The other members were new, dead, or too mutilated to recognize.  
  
They were the only Jacori Pools-side; lanky, bent and covered in pale blue fur, and stood out like an eel in a trout barrel. Aside from them most were Dromenian, like Sammy-- the rough, thin and black-haired rat of a child that sported olympic levels of laziness--, or Freitan descent. The new kids stared owlishly at them, pointing and snickering. Bouregard grinned lopsidedly, their icy tusks glinting, and snorted in grim satisfaction when the kids ducked behind a crate.  
  
Sammy nudged Bouregard out of their trance and gestured at the boss-- that is, the boss’s kid. He was the mouthpiece of one of the few anonymous adults in charge of the gang, appropriately named ‘Marshall’. He carried a pistol on his belt and stared daggers into Bou. The kid had a shadow of a desperate beard and held his head high. They could tell he nursed gritty beers to feel important.  
  
They realized with a start that everyone was watching them. They lanced their hand-like feet together and nudged Sammy back.  
  
“Thought you said it was _just_ startin!” Bou whispered hoarsely and spat their cigarette on the floor.  
  
Sammy shrugged. “I lied. Don’t look at me like that, you know how you are when you’re brooding!”  
  
“I ain’t broodin’!”  
  
“Are too!”  
  
  
Marshall shot the pistol. It cracked through the floorboard and caused everyone to jump out of their skin with ringing ears. Bou had flung themselves to the floor in a panic, jacket over their head.  
  
“You’re late,” he growled and blew the smoke off the muzzle. “And now you’re makin a fool of yourself in front of alla us, which cost me a bullet. Now you know I don’t like to repeat myself, but I like you, Jackie, got it? Don’t ruin that.”  
  
Heat flushed Bouregard from head to toe. They shakily got to their feet and bowed.  
  
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. S-Sorry, sir.”   
  
Even Sammy laughed. Bouregard flattened their ears against a chorus of laughter before Marshall slammed his fist on the table. Everyone hushed.  
  
“As I’m sure _you_ know, we’re low on cash and bodies. Between my pops paying the Ironjaw’s tithes, living expenses and weaponry, the Prison-side Mums have us beat. I’ve already assigned our dealers their locations for the week. As for you,” Marshall threw a manila folder across the table. “You’re going to be on another removal call. Local, an old Jackie woman reported a semi-aggressive apparition in her apartment. It’ll pay decent, if you do it right.”  
  
Bouregard leafed through the folder, its edges ringed with dried coffee. It contained the address and a little black and white photo of the apartment complex. They frowned and tucked it into their jacket.   
  
“This time you’ll have a partner,” he beckoned one of the children. It was a girl, no older than eight. She bounced on her heels, moth eaten dress slick with mud. “Break her in. Show her how we do things. Think she’ll make a promising ghost hunter.”  
  
The girl beamed at the praise and went to stand next to Bou. She came up to their knees, but her confidence was thrice their size. Bou disliked her already.  
  
Marshall dismissed the remaining members to their duties and trickled out with them. Rain beat off the roof, and Bouregard caught the girl pulling a booger out of her nose. She flicked it in their direction.  
  
“Name’s Twig,” she stuck out her grubby hand. Bouregard shook it tentatively. “An’ don’t yous forget it, alrighty? I’m the toughest, ghost-wranglin’ ready lass you’ll meet in Dromen!”  
  
Bouregard raised a brow. “Twig, huh? Kind of an unfortunate name for’a tough gal.”  
  
She puffed her chest like a pigeon robbed of its breadcrumbs and hissed through the gaps in her front teeth: Bou was surprised she didn’t suck up her squirely hair in the process, as it dangled in filthy clumps around her jaw.  
  
“I’ll have yous know I gots that name from floggin a hugemungus rat to death with nothin but a twig! So’s that’s what they calls me: Twig! An’ they say it with fear! Unlike you, Boo. You ain’t scarin me with your dumb flat face!”  
  
“Uh, actually, it’s Bouregard now. Second, wow, very clever insult, ain’t heard that one before,” Bou scowled and pulled out another cigarette. They caught Sammy grinning at them out of the corner of their eye and flipped them off. “Anyway, we gotta get changed n’ get over there in two shakes.”  
  
  
“Change? Why?” Twig crossed her arms.  
  
“‘Cause I said so. Now c’mon, the old restrooms downstairs’re changing rooms. We should find somethin more professional in there.”  
  
Bouregard led her by the arm to the first floor and snaked around broken shelving units. Dust settled around cannibalized electronics and toys that once proudly lined the walls. Plastic figurines were scattered, and dice were used as caltops at the wood-barred front door. There was an opening tucked into the wall with tables and a humming refrigerator. Three snotty, scraggly kids played Tragic and briefly eyed Bouregard, then went back to their game, ‘guarding’ the emergency exit.  
  
The restrooms were to the left of the counter, a neon OPEN sign flickering above. Behind the counter were cubbies with mysterious packages and banged up briefcases.  
  
They pushed her into one of the rooms before she get her sticky hands on anything valuable.  
  
Crates of clothing, most pilfered or donated, were stacked next to common toiletries in the restroom. No one was in the stalls. Twig sat on the counter and played with the sink while Bouregard rooted for proper clothing. They produced two crumpled off-white shirts and two pairs of black pants. They threw them on Twig’s head.  
  
“Go on, change.” they said, stripping down and hastily wrangling into the pants. It didn’t have a hole for their tiny puff of a tail.  
  
Twig slowly followed suit, and Bou ended up helping her tuck the shirt into her pants. Shoes came next, which weren’t an option for Bou. Twig pointed that out with a huff.  
  
“Hey, how come I gotta wear these crummy shoes and you ain’t? And why’s you got hands for feet?”  
  
“‘Cause most shoemakers ain’t accommodating to Jackies since we ain’t predictable like y’all. Just lay off it, awlright?” Bou’s words were final. They lapsed into silence as they finished up and trailed out of the restroom.  
  
Bou made a point to pick up a ghost jar and a suitcase from the cubbies behind the counter. It had their name on it, written on a sticky piece of paper, along with cash for a cab.  
  
“This is where we get alla our supplies n’ whatnot. I don’t need most’a this junk t’do my work, so you gotta carry it.” they shoved the jar and the suitcase into her arms. She juggled with it and gave a cry.  
  
“Whaddya yous mean I gotta carry alla this!? Yous think you’re special, don’tcha!?”  
  
Bourgeard counted the cash, unperturbed. “Yes, an’ you’re a rookie. We all went through this, so ain’t you start complainin or I’ll bop you. Now shut up, m’callin a cab.”  
  
She whistled angrily, her cheeks cherry red. Bouregard waved her on as they dialed, winding towards the emergency exit. One of the players nodded as they went past. The door was made of thick, bolted iron, and Bou huffed as they held it open with their back. It was pouring. Twig trundled into the rain and nearly dropped their suitcase in a puddle.  
  
“Careful. Our cab’s gonna pull up a block’re so down, little ways into Wade. It’ll drop us off near them tenements by Payton Ironworks, that ‘ole factory over there.” Bouregard pointed behind them, though the skyline was impossible to see beyond the leaning buildings. They hiked up their pants and peeled into the empty street, their bare feet slapping on the wet, gravelly road.  
  
Due to the nature of Dromen City-- or lack thereof-- certain streets were inaccessible via vehicle, and forced residents to go on foot: This wasn’t a bad advantage for the criminally inclined.  
  
Bou sucked on their cigarette and watched the alleyways as they marched, Twig in tow. They spotted one of their lookouts on a roof and tipped their hat. By the time they rounded the corner of Wade St., a strip of manicured pavement with canals on either side, they were soaked.  
  
The sounds of Central Pools were drowned out by the drizzle and slosh of the Wade canals. Stone bridges arched over into richer territory; finer, sizable houses with trimmed mushroom gardens, a fountain here or there, but nothing obtrusive. Twig parked under a street lamp and fumed.  
  
“I can’t believe yous made me carry alla that junk out here! My feet hurt! My arms hurt! An’ now look, we’re all in the richy snooty-pants turf. Why kill a ghost when we can steal!?” Twig crossed her arms.  
  
Bouregard leaned against the pole and stared down the road. “We ain’t killin no ghost, first off. Second off, don’t say that so loud or you ain’t gonna be stealin nothin ever again. Can it.”  
  
“So we are gonna steal?”  
  
“No, we ain’t. We don’t steal none from clients unless they deserve it. Gang’s fallen on hard times and it ain’t safe t’do that no more. Cab’s comin. Try and be respectful.” Bouregard squared their shoulders and tossed their cigarette as a cab purred down the street. It popped and sputtered, jolting like a cockroach, and rolled to a stop in front of them.   
  
The driver cracked open his door, eyeing the two.   
  
“Sorry, window doesn’t work no more. You two my trip t’Payton’s?” he said, smiling with buck teeth. He had the start of horns under his curly mane, but they were filed flat.  
  
Bouregard fished the cash out of their jacket. “Sure am, sir. This should cover the trip an’ the tip.”  
  
“Thank you kindly,” he hummed and combed through the money, satisfied. “You can hop on in the back. Should be ‘nough room for your suitcase n’ jar.”  
  
Bouregard and Twig slid into the cab. They were uncomfortably close and squirmed closer to their respective windows. The rain pitter-pattered on the windows.  
  
“Alright, kids, off to Payton’s. Hold on to your seats!”  
  
The engine roared to life and lurched forward. They bumped down Wade St., watching the modern homes turn to gothic and back again in a blink.  
  
“Ay, Bouregard,” Twig tapped their shoulder. “ _look!_ ”  
  
She pointed at the driver’s seat-- a tufted tail was wrapped around the armrest. Bouregard rolled their eyes.  
  
“Yeah, and?”  
  
“ _He’s gotta tail! I want one!_ ” she whispered, and reached out to grab it.  
  
Bouregard smacked her hand. “Don’t touch ‘em! You ain’t got no manners, I swear t’the eyes above! Just sit still!”  
  
Twig recoiled, her lip quivered. She sniffled and pushed her hair back. The cab turned another street.  
  
“Yous always bossin me around. What gives yous the right?”  
  
Bouregard sighed and rubbed their eyes. “Look, s’been a _long_ few months. Every newbie goes through this whether they like it’re not. I’m too tired t’deal with some rude little kid who ain’t got no sense and’ll probably get herself killed in a lick’a time.”  
  
They rattled over a bridge and the driver toyed with the radio. The air turned stale, ash falling like black snow between huddled tenements. They could see the bulky shadow of the Ironworks cowing the district. Twig didn’t respond; she dug vigorously into her nose and grumbled.  
  
The driver stopped at a lamp-lit corner and bid them farewell, speeding back the way he came. Twig continued her grumpy vigil, leaving them to walk in deafening silence.  
  
Payton’s district was quiet year-round, as its residents rarely poked out of their soiled homes for anything more than work. Most, if not all, toiled in the factory at the end of the road, shoveling coal into furnaces and boiling precious metals.  
  
Bouregard entered the third tenement in the row and walked up the stairs. Their client lived on the second floor in the 11th apartment, the paint peeling off the dull red door. They knocked and folded their hands neatly.  
  
A large woman answered the door, her rumpled, flower print dress camouflaged her against the wallpaper. She had stark blonde hair cast around her shoulders, and a two-pronged horn protruding from her forehead. Tired lines scored her cheeks. She gestured to them with pudgy, ash-tainted fingers.  
  
“You must be those ghost hunters I called for. Why dontcha come in and have a seat? You’re all sortsa soaked.” her voice was gentle, like a breeze.  
  
“Thank you for havin’ us, ma’am,” Bouregard bowed and stepped inside, guiding Twig with a hand on her back. They sat on a gaudy old couch. “So, can y’give us any more details on your lil hauntin? I understand you can’t enter your bedroom none without agitating it.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it little. She’s mad-- the ghost, that is. I’m fairly certain it’s my Ma. She passed a month’re so before the hauntings got real bad. Soda crackers?” she offered them a sad plate of saltines. Twig took three while Bou politely nibbled on one.  
  
“M’sorry to hear that, ma’am. D’you have any idea why she’d be angry at you in particular?”  
  
“Maybe she didn’t like your couch none,” Twig snorted. “S’got springs pokin my bum.”  
  
Bouregard whacked Twig on the ear. She yelped and shoved them back, but Bou stomped on her shoe and made her drop her crackers.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout her, ma’am. She’s new an’ ain’t got no manners,” they glared. “Please forgive her.”  
  
“Please, call me Lottie, and it ain’t any trouble. Had a kid once too,” she sighed. “Didn’t make it very long, though. That’s probably why Ma’s mad. Thinks I’m t’blame.”  
  
Lottie shifted uncomfortably as Bouregard stared at the bedroom door. They tapped their chin. “Makes sense t’me. When a spirit thinks it wants vengeance it’ll be damned if it don’t get it, even if it ain’t just. We’ll see what we can do, awlright? Just sit tight n’ safe over here. We’re gonna go in. Twig?”  
  
Bouregard got to their feet and made for the door. Twig followed, and to their annoyance had undone her tie and tangled it in the suitcase’s handle. They entered without hesitation, shutting the door before the client could protest.  
  
“Ain’t we gonna turn on a light?” Twig chirped.  
  
“Nope. Never turn on a light when you’re dealin with a ghost. Let your eyes adjust n’ you’ll see.”  
  
The room wasn’t entirely dark; lit by a sliver of a strip light in the street below. Slowly the outlines of furniture etched into view. There was a window, front and center, with curtains that drifted in an invisible breeze. To the left, a bookshelf and a workspace brushed elbows, with a small electric fan and dusty desktop. On the right, a two person bunk bed sagged, posters and tattered stuffed animals lining the wall. There was a single lamp and hand mirror propped at the foot of the bed.  
  
Bouregard sat on the bottom bunk and stretched.  
  
“Awlright. Twig, gimmie the suitcase, I’m gonna Attune n’ see if I can draw the ghost out with my own signature. Should rile ‘er up, or at least get her attention.” Bouregard said. Their breath came out in smoky puffs as the temperature dropped; they could hear the faint whine of electricity. She was here.  
  
They closed their eyes briefly, imagining a great river. They dipped their toes into it, followed by an ankle, their leg, their torso, run frigid by the current: This was how they Attuned to the Other Field, imagery and meditation.  
  
Bouregard opened their eyes to a shifted reality, cast in a sickly green wash. Twig had opened the suitcase and produced a silvered dagger, her ghost’s outline trembling with frustration and impatience.  
  
She pointed the dagger at them. “No. Yous been bossin me around all night! It’s high time I done somethin!”  
  
Their gut constricted. They got up and swayed, their vision lagging. From behind her, the telltale haunting began. At first she was nothing more than a bony hand, skin limp around the joints, emerging from the desktop. It crackled, snapped and buzzed with her effort, her body elongating like pulled taffy.  
  
“Twig, listen, you really gotta move--” Bouregard said, mouth agape. The ghost’s empty sockets and dislocated jaw swung, rubbery. Her hands stretched to embrace Twig.  
  
“I ain’t gotta do _nothin_! Let me show yous I can do this!”  
  
They watched her Attune too late, extending her spirit into the dagger and radiating outward, filling the room. It left her vulnerable, and the ghost knew it.  
  
Twig’s body jerked and collapsed, the dagger clattering to the floor. Bouregard leapt for it, but was catapulted into the bed by a shockwave. They folded in as their back collided with the edge of the frame and knocked the wind out of them.  
  
They gagged and braced themself on their knees. Twig had lost, her body pale and rimed with twinkling ice. The ghost puppeted her soon-to-be corpse, convulsing in an attempt to move. The sound of boots and clanking ghost jars outside froze them.  
  
“Hold on, hold on! Ma’am, I know you’re angry ‘bout whatever happened, but can we talk ‘bout it some?” Bouregard offered. While all ghosts could hear them, not all cared to listen. They inched towards the dagger.  
  
Not-Twig sneered and staggered at Bouregard. She was uninterested in communication, then. They flinched as she kicked the dagger out of their reach. They had nowhere to run, pressed against the bed, and their best line of defense was a pile of soggy stuffed animals.  
  
They reached around and grabbed a sizeable rat missing a button eye. Bouregard threw it as she descended on them, banging their head against the frame and digging her nails into their arms. She straddled their chest as the ghost burn settled in.  
  
Bouregard screamed. Their wrists began to melt in her grip, skin and fur disintegrating into a river of black and blue. She drooled a silvery substance onto their chest: It scalded them and tore at her flesh, exposing gum. Their heart thumped like a jackrabbit. They kicked to no avail, gasping as their lungs filled, eyes watering, rolling back.  
  
A net shot out of the doorframe and ripped Not-Twig off. She wailed, steam billowing off her silver-touched body. Bouregard tried to rise, their wrists useless, and found a Spirit Shepherd's gun under their chin. Her elegant canine medal glitter on her uniform, pressed and immaculate.  
  
“Ghost removal without an explicit permit is forbidden. You’re under arrest,” the Shepherd motioned for her lackey to handcuff Bouregard. They were shrugged to their feet.  
  
Lottie watched anxiously from the living room, phone in hand, twiddling with the wire. Bouregard scowled.  
  
“She set us up.” they gurgled.  
  
The Shepherd leader surveyed the room: The desktop’s screen was shattered, as were the lightbulbs, and the bunk bed was stained with Bouregard’s blood. They couldn’t feel their hands. Not-Twig gave one final howl before the eerie silence returned. They shivered.  
  
“Your fault for taking the job, then. You should know better,” she eyed the tattoo on their ankle. It marked them as a Mum. “We don’t often see your kind in the Pools. Desperate? Let’s walk.”  
  
Bouregard was shoved out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Lottie avoided their gaze.  
  
“Wait, what ‘bout Twig--?”  
  
“The girl? She’s dead, and you would’ve been too. We’re gonna get you treated before we figure out your punishment, now move it.”  
Outside, Shepherd vans growled and flashed. The tenement was teeming with them on all sides, and Bouregard felt exposed. They hid behind their damp lumps of hair before being shoved into the back of a van. A curiously masked Shepherd stepped in after them, set his duffle bag on the floor, and shut the trunk.  
  
Bouregard tuned out the rough examination, the bump-bumping of the van, their consciousness flowing between being prodded by needles and bandaged too tight. The Shepherd eventually slapped them on the shoulder and reclined, pulling out a small book to read.   
  
They curled into themself, staring at the handcuffs.  
  
Bouregard fell asleep as the van crawled into the Spirit Shephard’s Wade Station.


	2. MINA | RAISE HELL

The television factory was stagnant and dark; industrial shapes jutting in shades of disrepair. Wires hung from every corner, converging in the center where generators stood humming. There were three couches crowded around a bulky TV, a microwave and a handmade metal table; bottles and chip bags scattered in a homely fashion. Strings of lights rocked from a wide balcony. Two shadows slid across it, tittering like mice as they flicked off the remaining lights and pulled the blinds in the wide glass observation room.  
  
Excitement tickled the near-perfect silence. Mina, perched on a cannibalized boom lift, watched their bottle-necked entrance. Instead of garage-like doors, metal sheets were propped against them, with a shoddy door stapled on the right. The dust settled. Plastic fans whirred. Behind her, a hog stuck its snout into a crinkly bag.  
  
It was quiet. Mina clenched her jaw.  
  
Footsteps drew near-- heavy, lumbering steps. They stopped before the door, shuffling, plastic being shifted from one hand to the other.  
  
The doorknob turned, dim, blue light spilling into the dingy space. The person strolled inside, her thick, tattooed arms making the bulk of her silhouette. She had a damp, grassy patch of blonde hair, and needly quills running down her nape and back, and carried cases of cheap beer.  
  
She set the cases on the floor and reached blindly for the light switch. That was their cue.  
  
Mina jumped off the lift as Earnest and Stella, now clambering over the balcony, remotely activated the generators, illuminating Mina’s howling descent. Gretka caught her, laughing, and spun her like she was a rag doll. They kissed before Gretka dropped her unceremoniously on the floral patterned love seat.   
  
“Now what’s all this for?” Gretka said, wrapping an arm around Mina. Four excited hogs came romping down the balcony to greet Gretka, each with a different colored bow. Janvi was close behind. She picked up the smallest hog, Skunk, who wore a faded pink.  
  
“I think you know why, girlie! Congrats!” Janvi slapped her shoulder, which prompted a painful retaliation. “Shit! Watch your knuckles!”  
  
Skunk squirmed out of her grasp.  
  
“Oh, sorry, forgot yer a  
old hag, but they don’t call me Thunderfist for nothin.”  
  
Gretka flexed, her tattoos animating at the movement. The iron studs in her knuckles gleamed. Mina pulled her closer, producing a fine, unopened vodka from between the cushions.  
  
“Stop fuckin showin off! We’ve got shit to eat n’ drink. Stel, Erny, grub ready?” Mina said as she wrestled the cork.  
  
“Just about,” Earnest craned her eel’s neck towards Mina. “Tryna get rid of us so you can smooch some more?”  
  
“You’re one to fuckin talk. Always the first to go to the sewers with M--”  
  
The cork popped in a shower vodka. It beaned Gretka in the forehead and startled the hogs, who squealed and ran for cover. Everyone erupted into a fit of ugly cackles and snorts.  
  
Gretka rammed into Mina, pinning her to the armrest.  
  
“Now you’re gonna get it!” she said.  
  
While Gretka was stronger, Mina was smaller: She squirmed and prized her foot free, kicking Gretka square in the breast. She was knocked back, which gave Mina time to roll off the loveseat and jump onto the table, holding the vodka high.  
  
“You’ll have to fuckin catch me first!”  
  
Mina tossed the bottle to Earnest, who caught it and took a swig, cheering them on.  
  
She backflipped off the table and braced for Gretka, who vaulted over it and slammed into Mina knee-first. She felt the crushing weight tear her breath away, back flat against the concrete, and wheezed. She narrowly avoided the fist barrelling towards her.  
  
Mina rammed her head into Gretka’s at the opening. There was a loud crack, an explosion of white; their noses were bleeding, heads ringing, and they grinned at each other.  
  
“Gotcha, shithead.” Mina said.  
  
Gretka kissed her forehead and helped her to her feet. “Yeah, yeah, y’won’t be so lucky next time. Had to restian myself in case granny over ‘ere has a fuckin heart attack.”  
  
Janvi snorted and sat in Gretka’s seat, picking up a remote and turning on the TV. She flipped through the fuzzy, colorless channels.  
  
“Stel, go get the food so the kids’ll stop fightin. Downright damn disrespectful.”  
  
Earnest and Stella nudged each other and fled further into the factory. Gretka chose a single seat with Mina lounging on her lap.   
  
“Hey, where’s Mange off to?” Gretka asked.  
  
Mina and Janvi looked towards the door, then back at Gretka. Mina waved a hand.  
  
“Where isn’t Mange? Bitch couldn’t be on time for her life. More food for us.”  
  
“--Speaking of food!” Stella said, wheeling two teetering carts into the living area. “We’ve got a special selection for ya!”  
  
Earnest popped behind her, carrying a tray. “And a cake!”  
  
Gretka’s spines raised as she swept the feast: Fried eel kabaabs with butter-dipped mushrooms, mashed potato stuffed mushrooms and seal on a bed of seasoned rice and garlic; fat finger food grubs, still squirming, and seaweed strips for the picking. Gretka greedily wolfed two kabaabs in one go, earning smiles from the girls.  
  
They all sat and ate messily, pushing hungry hogs away from their meals. Mina broke the silence between bites.  
  
“Hey babe, you gonna tell us about your fuckin win or what?”  
  
There were snorts of agreement all around. Gretka held up her hand as she chewed on seal fat and rolled into her storytelling slouch. Mina passed her a bottle of wine.  
  
“Well, it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t hard enough, either. Punk was cheatin in the most obvious way, so I licked ‘em hard, taught ‘em a lesson,” Gretka brandished her bruised knuckles. “No way that dumbass got through wit’out cheatin,”  
  
  
Everyone leaned in. Earnest and Stella paused in their tracks with rapt attention, while Janvi shook her head, chuckling into a glass. Mina squeezed Gretka’s leg.  
  
“Came up t’me in the ring with a little shiny shitblade, probably one’a those tranq coaters. I could see the fear in his eyes. He stank w’it it, the fucker. Took his finger off like a fuckin carrot afterwards, told him if I ever saw his face again--”  
  
Thunder clapped outside. Their door swung open, and a lumpy figure cast a shadow on the group. They had a wide-brimmed fishing hat and a slick buttercup raincoat. Their stench betrayed their identity, and at once Gretka and Earnest were on their feet, running for the elusive Mange.  
  
Earnest got to her first and struggled to sweep her off her feet.  
  
“Damn, you’re a slippery--”  
  
“Eel?” Mange finished, grinning through chipped teeth.  
  
Gretka gave her a brief hug.  
  
“Look at you two lovebirds! Mind tellin me where the fuck you were this whole time? Not stuck in a pipe, I hope!”  
  
Mange kicked Gretka in the shin and trundled to the couches.  
  
“Nawh, I gotta second surprise for yous. Wait, did ya tell her yet?” Mange said.  
  
Janvi shook her head while Gretka glared at all the knowing faces.  
  
“Oops. Well, turns out despite the rain we’re gonna have a biggole Leviathan parade today. One’a the lords has been keen on showing it off, and it seems like the weather ain’t gonna stop ‘em.”  
  
“Which means..?” Gretka pressed.  
  
“Which  
we’re gonna blow it up in yer honour, stupid. When was the last time any of ‘em paid their tithes? Or showed a lil respect? We gotta shake em by the undies if we wanna keep this perch. Settin off ghosts is a hellava way t’do that.”  
  
Silence followed, and Mange picked at the leftovers on the cart. Gretka stroked her chin.  
  
“How long’ve you had this planned?”  
  
Janvi spoke. “For a damn while, kid. We just needed a reason and a time where we’re all t’gether,”  
  
“Here, here.” Stella raised her glass.  
  
“Now show us the leader you can be. To Thunderfist Gretka” Janvi said, and initiated the clanking of wine.  
  
Mina trembled with excitement. She bounced on her toes at Gretka’s side as she mulled over her gang and their talents. Gretka had that look in her eye; a dangerous twitch of life that rippled through the Ironjaws.  
  
“Right,” Gretka set down her glass. “Mange, I’m sure y’already know the path underground. Take us there on time. Stella, you take yer sniper and some flares. When Earnest flashes the signal, shoot the damn vessel. Granny, you backup Earny and make sure she doesn’t get compromised,”   
  
“And me?” Mina said.  
  
“And Mina,” Gretka paused, then gave a wet smile. “Raise hell.”  
  
\---  
  
The Ironjaws skulked through the sewers, guided by Mange’s blue lantern light, with Janvi at the rear. The water lapped at the walkway, burbling with creatures. Fungi clung to the ceiling, providing dark crevasses for the monstrous rats to slip.  
  
Mina pulled her jacket closer as a draft whipped through the tunnel. She lingered behind Gretka, barely snatching warmth from her. Stella was worse off, cringing with each spongy step. The odor was eye watering. It was a wonder Mange smelled as ripe as she did.  
  
“... Shouldn’t be long now. We’re right under Central.” Mange continued. Mina couldn’t bother to listen.  
  
“That’d explain the fuckin smell,” Gretka said.  
  
“And I can feel them revving up their float.” Earnest said, her lips curled. She shifted a bag of empty ghost jars over her shoulder.  
  
  
Mange laughed, jangling the hooks and weighted nets on her person. She ushered them up and out of a treacherous, watery grave of a manhole, which placed them near Central’s performance square. Rain beat them senseless and yet, through the barrage, they could hear a crowd.  
  
Mina rubbed her palms and splashed into an alley. The Ironjaws fit neatly into the shadow, and dispersed quickly as they came; Earnest, leaving the ghost jars with Mange, slipped into the crowd with Janvi close behind. Stella had climbed up a fire escape on a nearby coffee house to take aim.  
  
This left Gretka, Mina and Mange to squint at the fog-swallowed vessel as it reared into view, its mechanical roar butchered in the rain. The float itself was masterful, and Mina couldn’t blame the noble for showing it off. Even in the downpour, the finely stitched Leviathan glittered and cast its pale blue light on the Pools.  
  
“Gaudy as hell.” Gretka snorted, and elbowed Mina. She sneered in agreement.  
  
“Yeah, fuckin stupid.”  
  
“Well, it won’t be fer long,” Mange said. She tossed a ghost jar to both of them. “Jars ‘re good t’go, if we can nab one, but I can tell they’re pissed. Don’t run into shit yous can’t handle,”  
  
She looked pointedly at Mina, who scowled and turned away.  
  
“That means yous, Mina.”  
  
“I know! Get off my ass, it was  
time.”  
  
Gretka laughed and slapped Mina’s back. She crumpled under the force and feigned a wheezy laugh.  
  
“Yeah, one I saved your same ass from! Who knew that sewer ghost was such a siren.” Gretka whistled.  
  
  
Mina squealed and snapped like a stork, decking Gretka in the shoulder. She braced the hit like it was nothing and howled. Mange joined it.  
  
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! It was once! Once!”  
  
She turned away from them and crossed her arms indignantly. Her throat constricted with anger as she glared at the Leviathan float, watching it bob along. What a stupid, disgusting thing. A crack of lightning etched its silhouette, and it roared, pleasing the drenched crowd.  
  
Gretka stepped beside her and draped an arm around her neck. She flinched, grunting in response.  
  
“We were jus playin, baby.” Gretka said as she ran a hand through Mina’s slick hair.  
  
“Whatever.”  
  
  
From the corner of her eye, Mina saw a flickering light. Mange cleared her throat.  
  
“Ehem-- not t’be that gal, but Earny--”  
  
Stella’s bullet sang, bringing a deadly hush. It hit the Leviathan in its bulbous throat where the nested ghost vessel was kept. It cracked, and the air pressure rose with a pop and a hiss. The winds stirred furiously around the float, tearing the papery, fabric flesh from its boney frame.  
  
The cramped vessel exploded in a shower of sparks as people stampeded out of Central. Stella threw a flare into the crowd, giving Mina, Mange and Gretka their curtain call.  
  
  
Mina tore herself away from Gretka and leapt double-quick into the crowd, toting a dagger and ghost jar under her arm.  
  
  
She pounced on a plump, gaudy woman first, plunging the dagger into her shoulder and carving upwards, twisting, until she fell under her boot. She wailed, and Mina’s troubled mind melted, leaving ill intent to play. It was a comforting state of numbness; something vial and exhilarating found in taking a life.  
  
Mina watched her squirm before tearing the pearl necklace off the woman’s throat, then dashing into the madness for another victim. She pummeled, shanked and carved through the night, easing into a deadly rhythm.  
  
The Leviathan’s metal supports buckled while she dealt with a spindly couple, crashing a few feet behind her and scattering debris. The electricity in the air mounted, and she realized the couple had fled, leaving her pinched between a library and a bouquet of ghosts.  
  
She heard Stella’s second flare impact, but the light was muffled. Mina backed under the library’s awning and opened her ghost jar. She spotted Gretka sparring with a Spirit Shepard. Another materialized, feinting at her with a baton as the ghosts fused, making a patchwork of limbs in the sky.  
  
  
Mina threw the ghost jar at the second Shepard, which shattered and splintered, sticking them all with glass. She used her free hand to spring over a bench and careen into the first, screeching like a madwoman. The Shepard's baton hit her mercilessly-- left, right, over the skull.  
  
Mina spat a tooth into their eye and raised her dagger. The Shepard hesitated.  
  
“Mina!”  
  
A harpoon sailed over her and clunked into the cluster. Ectoplasmic acid burst from it, coating her. She fell into a heap of searing flesh, writhing on the dirt. She looked up to see Mange impale the Shepard and rush to her side  
  
“What did I tell yous, stupid!?” she scolded. Mina’s ears rang with sirens, screams and the rain. The sensory barrage clamped her eyes shut.  
  
“Gretka, get her to the sewers! I’m gonna get the rest of the gals.”  
  
Mina was picked up and slung over Gretka’s shoulder. Her bruised and bloody body bumped painfully as she ran for the manhole, practically jumping down the ladder. Mina groaned and fought back bile.  
  
“Throw up on me and I’m gonna toss ya down there,” Gretka said. “Mina, I swear…”  
  
She propped Mina against the wall and brushed her lips against her forehead.  
  
“I’m ffffuckin fine.” Mina said. She had a mile-wide grin.  
  
“Yer really not. Gonna have t’get special stuff for those ectoburns. What’re we gonna do with you?”  
  
“Feed me to the fuckin pigs? Dog’s been eyein me for a while--”  
  
Gretka laughed and shook her.  
  
“Shut up, ya crazy ass.”  
  
“Make me.”


End file.
